


Sincerity

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Implied Relationships, Inline with canon, M/M, Masturbation, No Plot/Plotless, Phone Calls & Telephones, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As long as they win, Hiruma can fake it until even he himself believes that he had faith in the team all along. He’ll do it himself, if he has to." Hiruma holds it together for the sake of the team, even when that means letting his own defenses down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sincerity

Hiruma’s entire body hurts.

Sheer force of will has kept him going for the past several weeks. The Devil Bats have to win, and in order to win they have to complete the training camp, and in order to complete the training camp he has to make it look possible. He knows perfectly well that completing the camp takes superhuman determination and more physical strength than he truly believed any of them had; even now, with the softness of a Las Vegas bed under him, he doesn’t quite believe that they made it.

That’s fine. He doesn’t need belief anyway. As long as they win, he can fake it until even he himself believes that he had faith in the team all along. He’ll do it himself, if he has to.

It must be because he’s tired, because he’s let his defenses fall even just for this moment. He certainly would never let his thoughts slide down the path that they take if he were in his right mind, wouldn’t let the whisper --  _it would be easier with Musashi_  -- even take shape in his mind. But his defenses  _are_  down, they crumbled days ago and he’s been running on fumes, and the words are in his head and on his lips, mumbled against the sheets under his face before he realizes what he’s doing, and once he hears them he lacks the fight to lie to himself anymore.

At least he has the room to himself. There’s no one else to see his fist hit the mattress, no one to see how pathetically weak even that motion is. Hiruma’s fist is shaky, so fragile that even the impact with the sheets is enough to knock his fingers loose and drop his palm flat onto the sheets.

He turns his head sideways, stares at the limp angle of his fingers on the dark sheets. He didn’t bother turning the light on -- it’s not like he needs to see to collapse onto the bed -- and his skin is illuminated only by the sparkling neon lights through the window. When he blinks the light catches, dances sideways, and for a moment he distantly admires the patterns, the crystalline fractures in his vision; then he blinks again, and hot liquid trickles across his cheeks, and he realizes he’s crying.

“ _Fuck_.” He throws himself sideways, rolls over onto his back as if gravity will help restrain the reaction coming up his throat. “Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_.” It’s not his usual yell; it’s barely a whisper, though the words are sharp as glass for all that he’s the only one who hears them. He’s the only one who needs to, anyway. He doesn’t have  _time_  for this, doesn’t have time to be tired and doesn’t have time to be weak and certainly doesn’t have time for the wail at the back of his head, the loneliness and want and hopeless truth, that  _it would be easier with Musashi_. Hiruma doesn’t have time to do this, not when he’s alone, now, not when he has to lead the team to victory and bring Musashi back.

His thoughts stutter on that, circle back around, and Hiruma shuts his eyes against the glitter of light and the apparently unstoppable pattern of his mental chatter both. He wants to win for  _winning_ , not to bring Musashi back, he doesn’t  _need_  Musashi. It’s fine. He’s fine. He doesn’t need Musashi to win, and he doesn’t  _want_  Musashi, and he doesn’t miss the flush of Musashi’s skin and he doesn’t miss the curve of Musashi’s smile and he doesn’t miss, he doesn’t --

“Aw,  _fuck_ ,” he says again, louder this time, and follows this up with a resigned groan. “Really?”

His brain has no reasonable response to this. It’s spooling out buried memories, all the things Hiruma has spent so long carefully papering over, all the pieces he thought he had managed to forget. Apparently hidden isn’t the same as lost, not with his usual defenses shattered and torn and crushed to dust by sheer physical and mental exhaustion, and all the logic he usually brings to bear on this is purring suggestion that sets his blood on fire, telling him he deserves this, he owes himself a break, he should really relax, after all.

Hiruma stares at the ceiling, turns this idea over in his head. It’s a bad one, he’s fairly sure, though he can’t make out the cracks in it. But he’s grinning without thinking about it, his mouth curving wide and reckless, and his hands are still shaking but his blood is going hot, and at least his tears have stopped.

That last is what does it. Jerking off to Musashi he can handle -- it won’t be the first time, after all, probably won’t be the last, either -- but tears he absolutely cannot, not even alone, not even for one night. If he lets himself go here he will never be able to pick the pieces back up, and if he must choose between one and the other, the one that will let him win is always the right answer. He decided that a long time ago.

He doesn’t even reorient himself on the bed. He’s turned sideways, his feet are hanging off the edge and his head is barely supported at the edge of the mattress, but it’s not worth moving, it’s not worth even kicking his boots off. When he gets his jeans open he can feel the salt-sweat of the day sticking in the crease of his elbows, the dust from the road lingering under his waistband, and that seems right too, that seems apt in a way the illusion of cleanliness never could be. His exhaustion seems to have no effect on his dick; he’s well over half-hard before he gets his fly open, and between the grip of his fingers and the fantasy behind his eyelids it’s only a breath before he’s entirely there, flushed and hot as he drags his hand carelessly over himself.

Being tired helps. It’s easier to let the fantasy take over when he’s this tired, easier to set aside his carefully constructed barriers and his awareness of his surroundings, until the image of Musashi bleeds into the leading edge of a dream and the imagined grip of fingers goes stronger, gentle and more careful in spite of the other boy’s broader hands. Hiruma’s breathing drops heavy with pleasure, low and shuddering in his chest instead of high and desperate with the tears he can’t let himself shed, and behind his eyelids Musashi leans over him, kisses a point of clean into Hiruma’s filthy shoulder, braces the other boy down into the softness of the mattress as he strokes over him. He’s smiling, wide and sincere and delighted, and he’s been here this whole time, he’s been right where he should be,  _here_  where Hiruma is, and they’re going to win together, Hiruma will never play alone again.

His orgasm catches him unawares. Hiruma’s still lost in sketching in the prelude, the alternate circumstances where the absence in his life was never there at all, when his skin flashes hot, his breathing stutters into anticipation in his throat. He seizes at his original image, throws himself back into his first idea with the speed of desperation; he’s barely got his fantasy back in place when his body convulses in against the drag of his hand and sensation drags him under as he wails a gasp and comes over his shirt and stomach alike. It’s barely pleasant; the ripple of reaction through his exhausted muscles is closer to agony, brings him rolling sideways and curling in around his fingers in instinctive protection from the motion of his own hand. But his mouth is full of Musashi’s name, his throat is trembling on every breath, and the ripples keep coming, shuddering through him until he can’t keep the sound back, until the other’s name spills free into the dark air in front of him.

It takes minutes for the shaking to stop. When Hiruma can take a breath with relative smoothness again he lets himself go, wipes his hand absently on his shirt, and sighs himself into true relaxation against the mattress. The button of his jeans is too hard to redo, but at least his pocket is easy to reach; he fishes his phone free, flicks the screen into backlit brightness, flinches back from the glow.

It’s probably not a good idea. Hiruma doesn’t care anymore, doesn’t care what time it is in Japan and doesn’t care how he’s going to sound across the line. He’s grinning before the ringing starts, before there’s a click on the other end and Musashi’s voice says, “Hiruma?”

“We made it,” Hiruma declares. He does sound awful, his voice is raw and rough even in his own ears, but it doesn’t matter, just for this moment everything is going to be okay. “We made it through the training camp.”

He starts to laugh even before Musashi’s startled exclamation of delight, and if it sounds hysterical to his own ears, it’s still the most sincere reaction he’s had in a year.


End file.
